


Morning Coffee

by howelleheir



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Body Appreciation, Clothing Kink, Conflict of Interests, M/M, Mild Voyeurism, Morning After, Office Party, One Night Stands, Power Dynamics, Pre-HYDRA Reveal, Sexy Underwear, Unresolved Tension, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing good ever came of sleeping with the boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one sitting between 3AM and 7AM because I really needed some clothing control kink, and also something more light-hearted than Fractures to work on for a minute. So, here, have some mildly-kinky morning-after mind games.

It’s seven in the morning when Steve wakes up. He looks around the room with the brief confusion of waking up in an unfamiliar place, remembering the decisions he’d made the previous night in the heat of the moment - starting with engaging the Secretary in conversation at the SHIELD New Year’s party, continuing with accepting his offer of a more substantial dinner, and ending with falling into bed with him. _Nothing good ever came of sleeping with the boss_ , he reminds himself firmly. He can hear the shower running in the _en suite_ , so he figures now is probably the best time to slip out.

When he starts gathering up his clothes, he runs into the first problem with that plan. His underwear. They’re ripped completely down one side. Should he put them on anyway? Shove them in a pocket? _Leave_ them? A pocket seems like the best option, so he pulls on his slacks and folds and stows the briefs. Belt, shirt, socks, shoes, all accounted for. His jacket is on the rack in the hall downstairs. He’ll grab it on the way out. He pauses to fix his hair in the mirror when he notices the sound of the shower has stopped.

He doesn’t make it to the door before Pierce comes in with a cup of coffee and a towel around his waist, and says, “Heading into the office?”

Steve turns, trying not to look too guilty. “Uh, no,” he says. “Taking New Year’s Day off. Just thought I should get out of your hair.”

Pierce closes the space between them, the barest hint of a smirk on his lips. In the daylight filtering in through the windows, Steve can see the signs on the other man’s body that he was once an agent in the field - a bullet-scar in his shoulder, another on his oblique, a jagged line on his left forearm, maybe from a break, and a peppering of small, irregular, raised patches, most likely shrapnel. He’s so caught up in his study of Pierce’s scars that he doesn’t realize what’s happening, just feels pain and a spreading burn from just below his chest down his stomach, and onto his groin. He lets out a yelp and looks down.

Coffee. There’s _coffee_ all over him.

“What the hell?” he snaps, looking incredulously at Pierce, who’s smirk widens almost imperceptibly, one eyebrow quirked in challenge.

“Can’t leave with a dirty shirt,” he says.

“Hilarious,” Steve retorts flatly. “Let me guess, you don’t have anything that’ll fit?”

Pierce takes a sip from the remainder of his coffee and sets it down on the dresser. “Actually, I might.”

While he rummages in the closet, Steve strips off his wet clothes and perches on the edge of the bed. What has he gotten himself into?

“Here, these’ll work.” Pierce tosses him a few articles - a black athletic shirt, standard STRIKE issue, though the logo on the sleeve suggests that this one is at least twenty years old, and a pair of black tac pants, a little worn at the knees. He almost misses the last item, but scoffs when he realizes what it is. Underwear. Black. Very silky, and very, _very_ skimpy. “Put them on.”

Steve is torn between laughing and telling Pierce to go to hell. He decides that neither option will do him any good. He _did_ make this bed, after all. Hopefully, he won’t have to lie in it for too long. He stands, bending over to step into the shorts.

“Uh-uh,” Pierce scolds. “Turn around.”

Steve stands, crossing his arms. “Really?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

No, he doesn’t. Pierce is one of only a few men Steve knows who can look intimidating in a towel. Grudgingly, he obeys, standing with his back to Pierce, legs spread shoulder-width apart, and bends at the hips, lifting one foot, then the other into the leg holes and sliding the shorts up, slowly. He lets them catch on the swell of his buttocks for a moment and snaps the waistband against his hips.

Pierce laughs. He actually _laughs_ , of all the ungrateful things he could do. Steve is standing there, in a political dignitary’s bedroom in a pair of underpants that doesn’t even cover half of his ass-cheeks, putting himself on display, and the bastard has the gall to laugh at him.

“Alright,” Steve says, whipping around to find Pierce much closer than he’d been before. “I don’t know what you think--”

Without so much as a change in his expression, Pierce thrusts his palm into Steve’s abdomen. The blow isn’t nearly enough to hurt him, but it lands in just the right place to wind him and knock him off balance, onto the edge of the bed, and Pierce is leaning over him, inches from his face, gripping his chin hard and looking him dead in the eye, and _now_ he’s grinning.

“Oh, Rogers,” he sighs, his voice full of teasing condescension. He jerks Steve’s head to the side and presses his lips to his ear to hiss, “Don’t be a brat. If you’re going to play, you’re going to play _by the rules_. Can you manage that?”

Steve stares, slack jawed, as Pierce pulls back, keeping his thumb and forefinger firmly on either side of Steve’s chin. So, this is a game. In spite of his better judgement, Steve decides to see where the game goes from here. Swallows hard, and gives a slight nod and a, “Yes, sir.”

Pierce releases him and takes a step back. “Good,” he says. “Stand up and get dressed.”

Steve reaches for the pants, but Pierce gives a terse, “ _Ah_.”

Oh, now it’s a puzzle, a challenge. Figure out the rules as he goes. Make the right moves. Shirt first, then.

“There you go,” Pierce says as soon as Steve’s hand closes around the shirt. He pulls it over his head, keeping an eye on Pierce’s expression as much as he can, looking for any sign that he’s getting things right or wrong. He stretches as he shrugs it onto his shoulders, which earns him what might just be a pleased look, and tugs it down to the waistband of the shorts. No reprimand comes when he, again, reaches for the pants, so he risks breaking visual contact to turn, bending as he had with the shorts and sliding them up his legs. This time, he arches his back on the way up. He leaves them open in the front and turns around with a thumb hooked in the front-right belt loop. Locking eyes with Pierce, he palms himself through the heavy fabric, giving a firm squeeze before fastening the zipper and button.

“What now?” he asks.

“Here,” says Pierce. He takes Steve’s belt from his coffee-soaked slacks, and wraps his arms around his waist to thread it through the belt-loops, buckling it in the front. “ _Now_ you can get out of my hair.”

“What?”

That smirk is back as Pierce says, “I have some work to catch up on today, and I don’t need a distraction. You can come back tomorrow night, if you want to.”

Steve starts putting on his socks and shoes. He’s feeling jerked around. He should say no, enough’s enough. Instead, he says, “What time?”

“Eight. Eat a light dinner.”

“Okay.”

Pierce catches him by the hip as he stands and kisses him, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’ll see you then.”

Steve shows himself out. This whole thing can only end badly.

He’s going to do it anyway.


End file.
